


The Call of Closet Monsters

by TillyN



Series: Speaking is Silver [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Language, Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychogenic Mutism, Winchester Sister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TillyN/pseuds/TillyN
Summary: When Sam and Dean return to investigate trouble at their childhood home, the past forcefully reinserts itself into their lives and their sister decides to follow its example. Turns out Mildred wasn't wrong when she argued that the three of them hunting together wouldn't turn out well.This is a continuation ofShushbased on season 1 episode 9.
Series: Speaking is Silver [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551994
Kudos: 23





	1. Home Sweet Home

**Author's Note:**

> Fully italicised speech in quotation marks is ASL. Other forms of communication such as writing, (only) fingerspelling, and the use of non-ASL signs and grammar, will be specified and the communicated text italicised _without_ quotation marks.

Mildred looked at her phone, thumbing through to recent calls. Somehow part of her hoped to find something that wasn’t there before, but... Nothing. Just a handful of unanswered calls, all to the same number. She didn’t bother to scroll down, knowing she would only find weeks’ worth more of the same, and her message records didn’t look much different.

The girl placed the phone back unto her desk, the screen facing downward. It didn’t matter. Dean could ignore her for as long as he wanted, she’d be _just_ fine.

Resolutely, Mildred returned to her reading, but before she even reached the third line, a soft ping broke her concentration. The girl’s attention shifted to a small notification window popping up at the top of her screen. _Sammy_.

The corners of her mouth curved up involuntarily. As much as she hadn’t been prepared for the sting of Dean ghosting her, she hadn’t anticipated Sammy’s enthusiasm to include her either. With Dean, their communication had always been brief and to the point - texting and one-sided phone calls had that effect - but with Sammy…The boy apparently carried his laptop along wherever he went, and it hadn’t been long before they had switched to email. Sam’s email correspondence, though, wasn’t like anything she had experienced before.

At first, they had been awkward and short. Neither of them really knew what to talk about. Finally, grasping at straws in her attempts to connect with a sibling she had only ever watched from a distance, Milly had started to ask about her brothers’ hunts.

It had started much like most of her communication with clients: polite, removed, simply requesting facts. No client of hers, however, had ever responded to such questions with the level of detail her little brother supplied. He was observant and meticulous, reporting each step in his thought process as if he were writing up a research paper for uni, and his emails were peppered with thoughtful theoretical questions about lore and hunting methods. Milly loved it.

As their emails grew longer, more and more of her little brother’s emotional side started to trickle through as well. That, unlike the intellectual discussion, was not something Mildred could return in equal measure. Still, she read and listened, and she learned.

Dean hadn’t ever talked much about Sam’s difficulties with their dad and the family dynamic. On occasion, things would slip through of course, but it was territory they mostly steered clear from to avoid falling back into the arguments that had driven them apart in the first place. Once her little brother appeared to be feeling more comfortable in their email correspondence, however, he had no such reservations. Half the time, Milly wondered if Sammy even really remembered that there was someone on the other side reading his emails and that she wasn’t just some kind of sentient journal.

She silently snorted at the thought. Mildred _was_ just one letter off from ‘Riddle’ she supposed, but somehow she didn’t think Sammy would be slaughtering chickens or opening the chamber of secrets just yet.

Grinning in anticipation, Milly clicked to open her brother’s latest missive. It did not take long for her smile to start fading. The message was shorter than she had grown used to. A warning note more than a letter. Lawrence… _Home_. She couldn’t imagine that Dean would be okay with that. He’d promised, no, _they_ had promised, that they would never go back there. She had never told him that she had had no choice but to break that promise. John wouldn’t take no for an answer, especially not from his nine-year-old daughter.

Her fingers rushed over the keys, and as soon as they hit enter, the laptop was closed. In minutes, Milly had thrown enough clothes for a couple of days into her mostly pre-packed hunting duffel. Now her eternally-out-of-place car keys and a note… She was nearly ready to leave when a pair of warm hands curled themselves around hers.

Milly looked up. Her hands started to move, but the girl in front of her gestured for her to wait. So Milly waited.

Her roommate plucked the note out of Mildred’s fingers. Her eyes moved quickly, and yet to Milly, the silence seemed to last for hours. When Josie put the note back down on the counter, she wasn’t sure what she was expecting.

“ _This isn’t just a normal job.”_ Milly looked down, only barely keeping her friend’s hands within her line of sight as she shifted her weight a little uncomfortably. She was itching to leave, but at the same time, that felt like the last thing she wanted to do. _“Your brothers?”_

Curse that girl’s insight. Milly offered a hesitant nod, unsure of what to do. There wasn’t any obvious judgement to be read in her roommate’s signs or expressions, but she felt bad, leaving again when Josie had only been back for a handful of days from her work trip. The girl had been amazing about Milly letting Sam stay in her room and everything too, never pressed when her friend didn’t want to talk. She deserved better than _her_ but…

Soft fingers pushed a strand of hair behind Milly’s ear. “ _Be safe.”_

The younger girl couldn’t help but smile. Strong arms enveloped her, and the subtle smell of coconuts filled her nose.

Milly was the first to let go.

 _“I’ll be back,”_ she tried to reassure the dark-haired girl in front of her. _"It will be just a couple of days."_

Josie nodded, reaching for something behind her on the counter. She rummaged through the fruit bowl for a few moments before pulling out something shiny with a grin so smug you’d think she had just solved a major mystery.

 _“Good hunting.”_ The signs came out a little awkward, seeing as the girl had her hands full, but that didn't reduce the impact of their familiarity. Milly's heart glowed warm in her chest, grateful for her friend's understanding and safe in the knowledge that she needn't attempt to express that. Josie knew.

So with a grin, Milly rolled her eyes and accepted the clementine her friend held out to her, together with the lost car keys. She signed a quick thanks and goodbye, before hoisting one bag onto her shoulder and grabbing hold of the other. Then, she was out the door.

* * *

**Lawrence, Kansas**

“I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean.”

Dean blinked at his little brother’s interruption. He had been just in the middle of giving the woman who had opened the door to their childhood home his usual spiel since Mr Creepy Dreams was staring at the lady as if he had never seen another human being in his entire life, when Sammy decided to change directions and tell the woman the truth. The older Winchester was curious just how far the kid was planning to take that. Somehow he didn’t think this woman would be terribly impressed by “I had a bad dream, and now I think the demon who killed our mum might be hanging about in your house and be after your family” as justification for their interference. Not to mention that they were supposed to treat this as a _normal_ job. Just another woman in just another house, nothing personal. Dean needed to pretend, no _believe_ that to be the case. How else was he supposed to just deal with all this crap?

Seemingly unaware of his brother’s inner turmoil, Sammy continued his little chat, working that innocent smile of his. Still, Dean highly doubted the woman was just going to let them-

“That’s so funny! You know, I…” the woman’s soft stammer as she appeared to be searching her recollection caught the older man’s attention. “… I think I found some of your photos the other night.”

“You did?” The question slipped out before he had a chance to think about it. Despite his concerns, Dean couldn’t help feeling curious. Curious, and worried. He had figured that there wouldn’t be anything left, all their belongings burnt with the rest of the house. Had something latched on to them, was there more of their childhood still trapped between those walls?

“Yeah. You and a sister, right?” the woman smiled politely. It was all Dean could do to maintain a stiff grin and hope that Sam would deal with the mess he had already created.

Judging by the woman’s reaction, his brother must have given her some sign of confirmation, because after a second of silence she seemed to make up her mind and stepped back, inviting them in. Sammy seemed excited about it more than anything, but it was not without a healthy dose of trepidation that Dean crossed that threshold. He had sworn he wouldn’t set foot there ever again, but… he couldn’t let Sammy do this alone.

The moment he entered the hall memories bombarded his mind. Vague impressions, voices, all those things he had tried to push aside. Mess. Not all of it was bad, but it was loud.

If there was one thing Dean had learned over the years though, it was that keeping busy, focussing on the present, was the best way to keep that trash heap of memories at bay. The questions came easily, asking about the reason for the move, experiences with the house… Dean let habit take over.

Things went smoothly from there. Dean was nearly starting to believe that they could treat this like a normal hunt after all when the woman’s - Jenny’s - kid started talking about a burning monster in her closet. Although they finished up the conversation the same they would for any other hunt, it took all the older man had to keep his head cool. Meanwhile, it became clear that Sam was wound tighter than a two-dollar watch, and the kid took off the second they got out the door, ranting his way through all the evidence and the obvious conclusions that Dean did _not_ want to think about. Did he want to finish the son of a bitch that murdered his mother and fucked up his family? Hell yeah. Did he think he would be confronting that thing now? Without Dad? Without-

His eyes caught sight of a slender figure near his baby, and Dean stopped dead in his tracks.

“For fuck’s sake…” he growled through gritted teeth. Beside him, Sam stilled, but before the kid could open his mouth Dean had gotten back in motion and was halfway across the street.He planted himself in front of his little sister who appeared to be fiddling with a clementine, of all things, and _dropping_ the peals _on his freshly lacquered Baby_.

“What the _hell_ do you think you are doing…”


	2. Business as Usual

Dean glared daggers at the small heap of discarded clementine peels as he tried with all his might to ignore Sammy’s bleating in the background. His brother's frustrated exclamations intermingled with the small voice in the back of his mind that was offering possible explanations for his sister’s sudden appearance, and Dean wasn't real fond of the result, pushing both sounds aside. He did not want to think about that, and he wasn’t _going_ to think about that. He had plenty to freak out about as it was, thank you very much. 

Red didn’t seem fazed by the situation at all, as apparently intent on her fruit snack as Dean was. He waited, silently counting to ten in an attempt to keep his cool, but already he could feel his patience fraying. This wasn’t exactly shaping up to be the best day of his life, and he had bigger things to worry about than his pigheaded asshole of a little sister. 

By the time he reached eight, she _still_ hadn’t moved and Dean was fed up. “Fuck this,” he spat out. In two angry steps, his hand was on the door handle, and he turned around to call Sammy. The words died on his lips. Sam had moved from his spot in the road and was now standing not too far from where his brother had been just moments ago, snapping at their sister to get her head out of her arse.

“Sammy?” Dean asked, a little bemused. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with the sentiment, but for the past few months, Sam had been bitching about _Dean_ being the unreasonable one. He stepped back around so that he had both his siblings in sight again. 

“She’s coming, Dean.” Sam casually tossed the words his way. The boy didn’t even look up, opting instead to continue his rant about the thing that killed mum and the importance of getting Jenny and her kids out of the house. 

Red briefly met his eye. Her face was blank, too blank not to be intentional, but her eyes spoke as they always had and her fingers flashed up in front of her chest for a moment. An old gesture, not one of her new, fancy signs, Dean thought. _Cross my heart_ … He’d always thought that sounded awfully _girly_ , which was precisely why Reddy had refused to use anything else, much to her brother’s chagrin. 

She eyed the house. Her meaning was clear, but Dean could scarcely believe he was understanding her correctly. She did not want to be here any more than he did, and Red, well… self-sacrifices for family weren’t exactly her style. Red cared about Red first. He couldn’t pretend to agree with that, but at least he could understand it. Saving Sammy in Palo Alto, being there for them right after? It had been a little surprising, sure, but at least it was convenient, and in some ways, safe. Coming here to support him was anything but.

Red had never told him, of course. Mildred Winchester had never been anything but reticent, not since the day he’d carried his baby brother out of a burning house. The very one they were standing right in front of. Still, just because his little sister would not talk did not mean that Dean didn’t _know_. 

He recalled that day. John had trudged into their motel room, Red in tow. Both of their faces were drawn with exhaustion, but that was nothing unusual. His sister had offered him a tired grin for reassurance. It wasn’t much, but between the two of them, it was enough. Dean had returned the gesture and didn’t think much of it. The changes had started soon after. They were subtle, small enough that he’d dismissed them initially, but Red would have these short little moments where she would suddenly get distracted. Not withdrawn as she would during her silent episodes, but as if she were listening to a song Dean couldn’t hear. Afterwards, she would scribble in a notebook he’d never seen before. Red had always kept notebooks for drawing and research and anything, really, but this was the first time she wouldn’t let him see. 

He’d tried not to care of course. Red was entitled to her secrets, as she’d always been. He just couldn’t understand what had _changed_ , until he happened to overhear a conversation between his father and Pastor Jim. He had never heard the pastor lose his cool like that before. The man always seemed so patient and gentle, like nothing could ever faze him. But he had torn into their father with a ferocity eleven-year-old Dean could scarcely believe. He hadn’t dared to stay and listen when his siblings were left unsupervised outside, but what he heard had been enough to figure out where Dad had taken his sister on their last trip, and the cost of that. 

And here she was, offering to do it all over again when there was no need, no imminent danger to him or Sammy, or _her_. Finally, he inclined his head. It was a start. 

Red turned her attention back to their little brother. Her hands moved but from the side, Dean wasn’t able to keep up. Red’s signs these days… they were nothing like the gestures they used to use. More nimble, quick, and abstract. Even when he could recognise some of the signs, he seemed unable to string them together. His sister claimed she ‘simply’ used proper ASL now and that the difference wasn’t _that_ large, but he didn’t think she quite realised how much her signing had changed. She had never had to interpret their old system after all.

“Alright,” Sam’s low voice shook him out of his thoughts. “Let’s get going.” Dean didn’t protest when his sister got into the back of the Impala. 

* * *

It was a quiet drive. His siblings were sharing the backseat, presumably so that Red could communicate more easily, although it was Sam who did most of the talking. Dean listened in silence as his brother rehashed the entirety of their visit to the house, elaborating here and there on details Dean himself had missed. On occasion, there would be a brief pause when Red chimed in with a question or remark, he guessed based on Sammy’s responses. Dean frowned into his rearview mirror, trying to see if his sister was typing on her phone or something. Her hands seemed empty. Weird. 

A couple of times throughout the conversation, Red tried to catch his eye. It appeared that she didn’t like the thought of Sam’s future-predicting dreams any more than he did. Meanwhile, his little brother was getting more and more wound up about getting the family out of the house again. “I told you, Sam, we _can’t,_ not until we’ve got a story Jenny will actually buy.” His interruption was clearly not appreciated. Dean suppressed a sigh as he pulled up at a petrol station. 

Projecting much more calmness than he felt, he started to fill up the car and tried to give his brother a bit of space. It seemed to work somewhat at least. Moments later both his siblings were leaning against the car, but no one was snapping at anyone. Yet. 

It was Red who broke the silence with the sound of pencil on paper. Dean eyed the notebook his sister was holding. Perhaps he’d overlooked it earlier in the car, or perhaps he was right and Sam had somehow found the time to learn (some) ASL over the past few weeks, and the paper was purely for Dean’s sake. How or when his brother might have pulled it off, he didn’t know, but this was _Sammy_. If anyone could find a way to learn something like that on the road… Red nudged notebook in his direction over the Impala’s roof. He had to tilt his head to read it.

_Where would you start if this was a normal job?_

Dean repeated the question out loud, looking over at Sam. His little brother let out a sharp breath. His shoulders were tight, face drawn. Once they were done with this crap they would need to find a way for Sammy to catch up on some sleep, Dean thought to himself. In fact, fuck, once this was done, _he_ wanted a break. He bloody well deserved it for putting up with both his siblings’ shit. Predictive nightmares, sign language…

He forcefully tried to steer his brain away from that train of thought. They couldn’t take a break until they got this job done, so he'd better get his head in the game. Sammy was offering suggestions for where to start. The history of the house?

“We already know what happened,” Dean shrugged off the question. Sam frowned at him.

“Yeah, but how much do we really know?” his brother questioned. “How much do you actually remember?”

“About that night, you mean?” Dean eyed the kid, moving his jaw in thought. “Not much.”

He could see his sister not too far behind him. Her gaze was fixated on something in the distance, nearly intent enough to be believable ‘thinking’. Still, for all they preferred to pretend it wasn’t the case, he knew his sister: if anything, Red was trying _not_ to think. 

He turned his attention back to Sam, careful to keep his voice low even as he allowed himself to recall. 

“I remember the fire…” Dean swallowed. “The heat…” 

Flames creeping across the ceiling and dripping down the walls. Hungry, and _loud_. Louder than it had any right to be. The memory made his face sting, like an intense sunburn that had come out of nowhere. His father’s voice, yelling at him as he pressed a baby into his son’s arms. “And then I carried you out the front door.” 

The fear was there all over again, tightening his chest. Or perhaps it was the smoke, making breathing so difficult. The creaking of wood harmonising with the roar of the fire filled his ears.

“You did?” Sam’s question cut through the thoughts and Dean sucked in a breath. Cool autumn air flooded his lungs. A good reminder. _Cut the crap, dude. It’s over,_ he tried to convince himself. He slowly breathed out again as he looked over at his youngest sibling. The echoes of his father’s most often issued order still echoed through his mind. _Look out for Sammy_. 

He shrugged. “You never knew that?” 

“No,” his brother replied as if it made a difference. Maybe it did. 

Dean tried to shrug it off. There was something uncomfortable about Sam’s gaze. Something heavy, that he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to think about right now. Instead, he rushed his way through the rest of their Dad’s story. Mum on the ceiling, the culprit long gone by the time he’d found her, and found Red.

Once again, his eyes wandered over to the girl standing with her back towards them now. Had she been listening? He’d tried to stay quiet enough to make it optional.

“What about you, Mildred?” Sammy questioned with all the finesse of an elephant in a china store. “Do you remember anything?” 

Dean was tempted to smack his little brother on the head. For fuck’s sake, empathy and sad faces at all the fucking useless moments, and _now_ he had lost his sense of tact? Just fucking perfect. The older Winchester tensed his jaw as he watched their sister intently. 

The shift was subtle, but Dean had watched it happen a million times before. Apparently growing up didn’t change too much after all. 

“Sammy,” he ground out. The kid tilted his head at him in question. He knew the exact moment his brother understood, as the kid’s eyebrows snapped down and he blinked a couple of times. Dean wasn’t sure he was going to leave it, recognising the stubborn determination still lingering behind the understanding, but Sam’s lips stayed closed. It was a start. 

The rest of the conversation went as smooth as it could, considering the topic. It didn’t take the boys long to hash out a quick plan of action. Their next step was clear: find out more about what happened back then so that they could figure out what was going on this time around, which meant talking. Talking to neighbours, Dad’s friends… Truly, this job was getting better by the minute.

A quiet rustling of paper announced their sister’s return to the present. Sam broke off his sentence to lean over and have a look at her scribbles. Dean simply watched and waited. Going by Sammy’s expression, he wasn’t going to like this. 

Finally, he was handed the notebook. He skimmed the page. 

“So,” he stated in a considering tone. “We drop you off at your car, you go find us a motel and hit up the library, while Sammy and I have a little chat around.” 

Red nodded in confirmation, and - noticing his brother’s unhappy expression - Dean forced a grin and shrugged his approval before Sam could start to protest. “I suppose that’s efficient.” Better not to see how far his little sister’s newfound commitment would stretch. Sammy’s demeanour suggested that more questions were coming, but Dean just hoped that his idiot siblings could contain their angst at least until they were at a safe distance from each other. 

He needed a fucking drink.


	3. He Said She Said

It just didn’t add up.

Milly bit her lip, staring at page notes she’d just transcribed into her research file in hopes of finding some overlooked clue. Of course, said clue might simply not be on the page. 

She frowned at the relatively sparse set of lines before turning over the leaf. As compared to the previous one, this side was practically overflowing with tightly scribbled words. If this premonition dream thing of Sammy’s was legit — and she was inclined to believe so — either his memory was shit, or the dreams were not consistent at all.

Sam’s recall for detail was nothing to sniff at. Even if the chattering emails he’d sent her about the brothers’ last few cases hadn’t done so already, the second page of notes would have been enough to tell her that. It was all there, described with gruelling precision. Dripping blood, the positioning of his girlfriend on the ceiling… 

She closed her eyes in an attempt to banish the images from her mind. No, Sammy’s memory wasn’t in question, and neither was his willingness to provide information. If Sam was prepared to think back and write about his girlfriend’s murder, he would not have held back on the much less disconcerting image of a stranger screaming for help from behind the windows of their childhood home. A home that Sam shouldn’t even remember.

She shivered, trying to shake off the sense of foreboding that was causing her spine to tingle. The girl swung her legs off the bed in search of her duffel. It wasn't long before Milly found herself back in the position she'd started from, now safely wrapped in one of her favourite sweaters with a steaming cup of coffee warming her hands. Something crinkled in her pocket. 

A little bemused, Milly reached into the sweater, her hand emerging with a scrap of paper. There were no words on it, just a vague sketch of a hand. A  _ signing _ hand. 

The corners of her mouth curled up involuntarily, as a warm glow spread through her chest, calming her, but also bringing a new sense of urgency, of ability. The sooner she finished this, the better. And she  _ would _ finish it, this time. 

With a determined gesture, Milly placed Sam’s notes to the side, revealing an old journal underneath. It didn’t look much different from her other old notebooks, with only a thin line of coloured tape on the spine to set it apart; an aid for her dad to know which one to look for, and for her, to know which to avoid. 

With a sense of dread, she thumbed through the pages. 

There was something nostalgic, almost sweet about the handwriting that greeted her. Blocky and neat at the start, every letter seemed inscribed with care and control, full of tedious precision. As the pages went on, however, the script gradually morphed into a more relaxed scrawl. The transition wasn’t even. There was a break halfway — her early teenage years — where there had been a discernable hiatus and a significant jump in writing style. The variations increased. Sometimes the writing was tight and slanted, sometimes angrily pointed or soft and uneven. Distracted pencil strokes were scattered throughout where she had hesitated, her hand hovering just a little too close to the paper, or where a bump in the road or a rowdy sibling might have made knocked her fingers astray. 

None of her other notebooks showed so much variation. None of her other notebooks were this empty, either. Usually, she filled them up before she started a new one, and  _ usually _ , filling them up didn’t take all that long. But not this one. 

Steeling herself, Milly pulled up a different spreadsheet on the laptop and turned the journal back to the first page. A list of questions in a hand distinct from her own glared back at her.  _ Dad _ . A familiar wave of anger welled up at the word, a sense of violation and fear, seeing those blunt words on the paper. As if she’d needed them in writing to remind her. 

John’s voice echoed through her thoughts. Soft, insistent. Sometimes gentle, sometimes intimidating, harsh. He needed her to remember; he needed her to tell. Any detail,  _ every _ detail. 

The therapist Jim had insisted she see, had once suggested that Milly track of her nightmares in a journal. She’d nearly laughed in his face, only restraining herself because she knew Jim wouldn’t like it. Like she’d never thought of  _ that _ herself. She wasn’t supposed to tell, wasn't supposed to share, and the questions never helped. All that trying to answer questions ever did was to beget more questions. And more, and more.

Every single morning that stupid journal had been pushed in front of her. Every morning the same questions, the same private conversations with Da-  _ John.  _ Small pen remarks in the sidelines of her journal. More violations. More questions. She didn’t know. She  _ didn’t. Fucking. Know.  _

Or perhaps she did. There were things she did think, did guess, but she didn’t  _ know _ , and so she wouldn’t write them down. Couldn’t write them down. To put it onto paper made it real, and it couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But even those things had made their way onto these pages one way or another. Eventually, worn down, desperate, she'd kept on pushing, kept on writing, well beyond the facts. And guided by his questions, she had reached conclusions of her own. 

The words stared up at her from the paper in a childish scrawl.  _ I killed mum.  _ The conspicuous absence of an adult’s interrupting notes reflected the same heavy silence she recalled. He hadn’t disagreed. 

The sudden thud of nearby footsteps froze her thoughts. There was a knock on the door, male voices rumbling outside. Milly closed the notebook with a snap and slid it into her laptop case, hidden underneath the computer. She opened the door. 

Dean barely even acknowledged her before brushing passed and throwing his bag unto one of the beds. He pulled out his father’s journal. 

Milly had to force herself to focus on her brother to keep her eyes from glancing towards the laptop case on the desk, but Dean’s gruff voice helped cut through any angst before it had a chance to build.

“We got a lead. One  _ Missouri Moseley _ .” 

He held out the journal to her, opened on the first page. Mildred lowered her head, stifling the twinge of anticipation that name recalled. It had been a good while, but Missouri Moseley wasn’t the type of person you just  _ forgot _ , she considered with a mixture of fondness and apprehension. 

Mostly for the show of it, she glanced at the page Dean was holding up to her, barely paying attention to the words —  _ ‘I went to Missouri, and I learned the truth’ _ , wasn’t that just like John Winchester, cryptic fucker. Her gaze returned to her brother, and she nodded sharply. 

A sound of quiet shuffling came from behind. Milly leant back to find Sammy pretending that he wasn’t trying to read the open file on her computer from the corner of his eye. The girl smirked. She snapped her fingers to get his attention.

_ “Later.”  _ She was careful to articulate the sign clearly. It was impressive how far Sammy had gotten with a bit of self-study these past months, but she was pretty sure he still recognised only a small fraction of her signs, relying heavily on context and his quick intellect to make any sense of her at all. She had to be mindful of her pace and stick with basic vocab, short sentences, fingerspelling anything too specialised in addition. But he was  _ trying _ .

In the car earlier, she'd even noticed his hands moving along, echoing some of the signs quietly at his side. With a bit of practice… Milly grinned to herself. She might just be able to introduce her little brother to Josie sometime without having to play interpreter all day. 

“Well?” Her older brother’s impatient remark only strengthened the girl's urge to smirk. Perhaps visiting Missouri wouldn’t be so bad with her brothers in tow. 

“ _ Coming.”  _ She grabbed Sammy’s notes, a standard notebook, and closed the laptop. The case zipped up with a neat snap, and Milly gestured for her brothers to lead the way.

* * *

By the time they settled in the palm reader’s waiting area, most of the smugness had faded, and Mildred was left with that same mixture of fondness and apprehension she’d felt earlier. Predominantly apprehension now though, she noticed in a detached sort of way, studiously avoiding a more in-depth look at the roots of the knot forming in her stomach. Memories hovered in her peripheral vision, trying to push their way in. She paid them no mind. There were more interesting subjects of study available.

Dean was acting antsy and impatient. More so than usual, Milly noted, as he paged through some magazine with apparent disinterest. The hunt was wearing on him. She couldn’t stop herself from flinching slightly when the man suddenly threw the magazine back onto the low table and huffed. Perhaps it was wearing on her too. 

Quiet voices interrupted her musings. Instantly, all three Winchesters were on alert. 

Drinking in the warm and reassuring tone of a woman’s voice assuring her visitor of his wife’s continued interest, Milly closed her eyes, only to snap them open immediately at the loud click of a closing front door. With stubborn effort, the girl forced her eyelids down again, as if that thin layer of skin might keep the images at bay. Of course, it didn’t work. Waves of memories washed over her, crashing down on her mind without the slightest recognition of the fact that  _ Milly didn’t want them _ . Missouri saw too damn much as it was. 

Under different circumstances, she might have been amused at the open-mouthed bewilderment radiating from her brothers. The dark-skinned psychic had that effect on people. Alas, Mildred’s mind was a tad pre-occupied, and even as she blinked her eyes open, it took a while for her siblings’ response to sink in. Instead, she simply moved along with them, standing up just a beat too late. She followed the boys into the house, up to the end of the hall.

Dean and Sam stepped right through into a cluttered living room, but Milly hesitated, hovering at the doorstep besides a beaded curtain. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood, focussing on the quiet clinking of the beads rather than Missouri catching up with her brothers. It was all just like she remembered. 

Somewhere distant, Milly registered the shift in atmosphere and more by instinct than will, she couldn’t help but turn her attention back to the conversation taking place only an arms-length away from her. Missouri’s gentle apology for Jessica’s death to a stunned Sammy was quickly followed by a string of far too urgent questions about their father from Dean. Like it’d make a difference.

Despite herself, a sliver of amusement bubbled up in Milly’s chest as the intimidating woman took her impatient older brother to task for his presumption. She glanced up to share a grin with Sammy, but that was her mistake. The older lady caught her eye and pounced. 

“Mildred.” Missouri approached her. Milly wanted to flinch, hide from the attention and those piercing eyes that saw more than they ought to, but found she couldn’t. And then Missouri’s hand was there, gently wrapped around hers before she had a chance to pull away. A look of understanding passed between them. There was a brief pause. Then, the lady simply smiled, and Milly let out a breath of relief. 

“It’s good to see you three together again.” Missouri’s sincere tone seemed to soothe the prickling sensation of her nerves, and for a moment, Milly leaned in to that feeling. “I told your daddy it-“ 

Instantly, her guard came right back up, her thoughts practically snarling at that title. All it earned her was another one of those piercing stares. Milly wanted to tug her hand away and look aside in discomfort, but she knew better. Annoyed, the girl settled for grumbling some less than flattering thoughts about the woman in her mind.  _ That _ got her a different kind of look. 

“Don’t you take that tone with me, girl,” Missouri chided. Dean was throwing one of those smug little smirks in her direction, clearly pleased not to be the only one to get scolded like a child. Milly was tempted to stick out her tongue at him, but a warning glance from Missouri had her reconsider. The psychic pursed her lips knowingly, then nodded, apparently satisfied. “Now tell me, how is that pastor of yours doing, hmm?” 

Behind the woman’s back, Milly could see Sam startle. “Pastor?” her brother questioned. 

Missouri hummed in agreement, gently pulling Milly further into the room. “Didn’t tell your brother yet, did you?” Her cheeks flushed slightly at the knowing tone of admonishment in the lady’s voice. 

“That’s alright,” the woman turned towards the couch where her siblings were getting settled. “You are thinking correct, Sam. I was asking about your father’s friend, Jim. I’m glad he’s in good health, child.” Milly returned the affectionate smile she received with a gentle grin of her own. 

“We may not always see eye to eye, but he’s a good man, he is.” Strong, warm fingers squeezed her hand for a moment, then moved on to rubbing the back of it. It was soothing, and slowly, Mildred found herself relax a little.

Meanwhile, Sammy had moved on to spluttering more questions while Dean was eyeing the room with a dispassionate expression. “But if Mildred has been staying with Pastor Jim, how come we never saw her when we stayed at his place?” 

She cringed a little at the note of hurt in her brother’s voice. Milly started to lift her hands to sign an apology, but Missouri resisted, pulling them down gently. “There’ll be less confusion this way, dear.” There was no point in arguing with that tone, Milly knew, so she formulated her response in thought instead, allowing the psychic to pass it on to their captive audience. 

“It was part of their ‘agreement,’ Sam,” the older woman explained, her tone speaking loud and clear of her opinion on such arrangements. “Your father would allow no contact between you and your sister, so Mildred slept at the neighbours’ or elsewhere during your visits.” She sighed disparagingly, shaking her head in Milly’s direction. “I told you. Said it wouldn’t cause nothing but unnecessary heartache. But did you listen? Stubborn as a pair of mules, you and your daddy both-“ 

Again that word managed to rile her already-shredded patience. Still, before she even had a chance to protest, Dean was nodding in assent, opening his mouth to jump in and reiterate the argument he and Milly had had more times than she cared to recall. Instantly, her temper flared, and her hands started expressing precisely what he could do with his idiotic opinions, but their host maintained a firm grip on her arms. 

Milly had to stifle an internal cry of frustration about the physical restriction. It wasn’t like the woman would have clamped her hand over the boys’ mouths, surely, so  _ why _ did people think restraining her hands was any more acceptable? Just because Missouri could read her thoughts — because that wasn’t intrusive at all — did  _ not _ make it okay for her to restrain Milly from voicing them.

The woman’s expression softened a little, but she didn’t let go. Instead, she tugged on Milly’s wrist, throwing both siblings a stern look. “That’s enough, the both of you—bickering like a pair of school children.  _ You _ ,” the psychic glared at Dean. “Cut your sister some slack.” Dean huffed but sat back. “And you, missy,” Missouri turned around to the sullen girl. “You mind that tongue of yours. Now go sit with your brothers, and  _ behave.”  _

It took all Milly’s self-control not to roll her eyes or sulk like the child Missouri was accusing her of acting like, but she obeyed, silently grateful to have at least regained the free use of her hands. The psychic promptly snapped a warning at her eldest brother that he  _ better _ not put his feet on her table, and Milly felt the anger resided somewhat to make way for a drop of smug amusement, though she wisely kept her thoughts in line. 

The lighter atmosphere lasted for all of ten seconds. 

As soon as they all got settled, Sammy had to open the conversation they had come for. Not with questions about the house, no, asking about his  _ dad _ . In retrospect, it was obvious, Milly admonished herself. Of  _ course, _ Sam would start with Missouri’s connection to his father; it wasn’t like he  _ knew _ \- 

As her brothers asked their questions, quickly moving towards more relevant territory: the house, their mother, Milly listened only with half an ear. There wouldn’t be anything new Missouri could tell them. Not unless  _ John _ had found something new and was actually sharing information for a change. She’d eat her notepad if that were the case, though. 

Her eyes drifted around the room. It truly hadn’t changed much. Some different pictures here and there, perhaps. A change in the curtains' colour at the window? The whole experience felt weird, disconnected somehow. Her body might be in this room again, but her mind… 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the start of the discussion when she noticed it. On top of a dresser across the room, a variety of picture frames was gathered. One caught her eye, but before she could formulate a coherent thought on it, there was a sudden drop in the conversation. Heavy silence filled the room. 

Mildred’s attention snapped back to the conversation, to her brothers and Missouri. Sam was frowning intently at the woman, who must have gotten up sometime in the past, what? 20 minutes? 30? 

“I just don’t understand,” Missouri mused, clearly disconcerted by that realisation. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the place and, it’s been quiet.” 

Milly figured the boys must have moved on to talking about the present case now. Before any of them could ask, the psychic quickly rattled off the answers to all their usual follow-up questions: no sudden deaths, no freak accidents — Milly didn’t like it one bit. 

Neither did her brothers, it seemed. Sammy, eloquent as ever, managed to put the unsettling feeling into words:  _ It just feels like something is starting. _ Too many seemingly random things were happening on top of each other — Jessica, Sammy’s dreams, and, much as she hated to admit it, their father’s disappearance. Too many things connected to  _ them _ . This mess had Winchester written all over it. 

When Missouri suggested that they pay the house another visit, Milly had to swallow her unease. She’d figured she wasn’t going to be able to avoid it altogether, but part of her had hoped it could at least be postponed a little longer. The girl didn’t have to look to feel Missouri’s heavy gaze on her. With a brusque gesture, she moved from the couch, pacing across the room until she found herself facing the same dresser she’d noticed earlier. 

The quiet (and some less quiet) questions and grumblings from her brothers faded to the background as their exchange continued. Probably Dean’s doing. He’d always been good at picking up when she dropped out. 

Milly turned her attention to the objects in front of her. The collection of yellowed pictures, notes and trinkets seemed just the kind that  _ ought _ to be collecting dust like crazy, she reflected, though there was not a speck of dirt to be found. She reached behind them, picking up one of the few unframed objects. The sketched portrait of Missouri crinkled between her fingers, with its gently flattened creases showing where the paper had once folded to fit into an envelope. On the back, in wooden letters, stood a brief message. Her thumb slowly traced the writing. There were only four words:  _ Thank you for trying _ . 

An unexpected hand on her shoulder made her jump. Milly looked up, realising the boys were no longer in the room. Had they been gone for long? How hadn’t she noticed, had she really been that out of it? 

Now it was just her and Missouri. The woman’s eyes were full of quiet understanding and no small amount of concern. Milly shifted her weight a little uneasy, trying to figure out what to say, or think, but the psychic simply patted her hand. 

“Your brothers are waiting by the car, ready to go, but before we leave…” She was nudged in the direction of the now-empty couch. “We need to have a word.”


	4. Sight

Missouri Moseley stepped into the bedroom with no small amount of caution, her head at a tilt as if she were listening for something. Behind her, the Winchester siblings entered one by one. First Sam, whose attention was fixed on the psychic. He wasn’t relaxed by any means, but he strode into the room without a hint of the apprehension that had his older brother and sister hovering at the entrance. Behind his back, Mildred slipped her hand into Dean’s. The older guy glanced down for a second, then eyed his sister, but he did not pull away. If anything, his fingers tightened on hers while Missouri recounted the history of the room. _The place where it all happened._

Sam’s eyes shot to the ceiling of his old nursery, perhaps picturing his mother in the same way he'd found Jessica looking down on him. Dean shifted his weight, eyes gliding around the room with an anxious kind of energy. He let go of his sister’s hand and started fiddling with an EMF meter. Sam stepped back to take a look.

Missouri glanced over at the boys, then caught the eye of the young woman still lurking at the doorframe. Looks passed between them. Mildred was the first to turn away. 

“I don’t know if you kids should be disappointed or relieved,” Missouri started. 

Though her words were mostly directed to the boys, her eyes lingered on their sister before moving on towards them. Mildred’s eyebrows pinched together. 

“This ain’t the thing that took your mum.” 

That statement got the psychic the undivided attention of all three siblings. Sammy was the first to come out with words. His stammered request for confirmation wasn’t much, but it was more than the other two managed. Dean was listening, quietly focussed while Sam pursued the information and asked all the obvious questions, but Mildred stiffened. 

Neither of her brothers appeared to notice while she dug her nails into the palm of her hand — the one Dean had been holding not so long ago — as if she were clenching onto something no longer there. Then, the girl plopped herself down on the floor with little fanfare and started scribbling in the notebook she’d been carrying in the other hand. 

The brothers stared. The sudden movement hadn’t escaped anyone’s attention, and Dean’s expression of concern returned. Still, when he asked a question, it wasn’t directed at his sister. “What _is_ it?” 

There was a rare hint of approval in Missouri’s gaze, and she immediately launched into her explanation of the two spirits she’d noticed. That was enough to distract the youngest of the Winchesters as well. A powerful poltergeist was nothing to sniff at. 

Behind them, their sister bent herself closer to her paper, taking down every word that left the psychic’s mouth, every relevant thought passing her mind, without ever lifting her eyes. 

* * *

_Nothing had happened at first. As Milly crossed into the room, her steps light and back stiff with trepidation, she half expected to find herself right in the middle of one of her nightmares, but the room was nothing like a nursery any more. With its large single bed and heavy cream curtains, it looked exactly like your typical bland guest room. Nicer than most of the places they ever stayed in, perhaps, but nothing special._

_A gruff noise from the doorway had her snap her head around. Her father’s expression was closed off but the bulging muscle at his jaw betrayed his impatience. Milly met his eye, wanting to tell her dad that this simply wasn’t working. She didn’t spontaneously relive the night she had watched her mother die, boohoo, what a pity, so could they leave now, please? But no, Milly chastised herself, turning her attention back to the room. They needed to know what had happened and she was the only one who had been there, the only one who might remember at least. She had to try._

_From across the room, the strange lady she’d met only that morning was giving her an encouraging nod. Milly looked down, suddenly feeling a little nervous. When Dad had first introduced them she had liked the woman well enough. Missouri hadn’t thrown Milly out of the room when the adults were talking, and with her uncanny ability to pluck Mildred’s thoughts right out of her mind, this lady could understand her! It wasn’t until the rush of excitement from that realisation wore off that the girl had realised that Missouri’s talent didn’t just encompass the things that she wanted to share._

_Nervous that the woman might pick up on her rather heavy reservations about_ that _revelation, Milly snapped down her eyes and turned her attention back to the room. She tried to picture the way it would have looked, with colourful wallpaper and strewn about toys. Reaching for memories, she circled around. Here her bed had been, right up against the same wall as the current one, though the toddler bed must have been much smaller, leaving space in the centre of the room for Sammy’s crib. And there, in that corner, the big chair used to stand. The one that her parents would sit in to feed the baby or read her stories._

 _Step by step, her eyes started drifting upward. From the bed to the closet, to the spot of the music box she vaguely remembered hanging up there, to the edge of the ceiling… Her eyes clamped shut. Milly took a shaky breath and forced her shoulders down. When she turned back to her father, her hands formed a single gesture._ _‘Nothing’. She’d tried. That was all he could ask of her._

_It wasn’t enough._

_It only took her father a handful of steps to cross the room, impatience screaming from his every move. “Try again.” It was an order, given with that low tone of voice that Milly knew better than to argue against. And yet, she shook her head. She wasn’t sure where she’d found the courage, but with that first little headshake, something snapped inside. The feelings washed over her as if with the move of her head, she had punched through a wall, broken a dam, and now it was all coming out. She was_ done. _She’d tried. It was over._

_When her father repeated his not-so-much-request in an even lower growl, it was all Milly could do to glare at his shoes in defiance, wishing she could yell at them to go away and carry the man wearing them right back, out the door, into the car, and away. Far away. After a beat, her hands stubbornly repeated the earlier gesture. There was nothing. They were done._

_Strong fingers reached around her chin, and Milly wasn’t quick enough to squirm away. They forced her head up. There, right in front of her nose, she couldn’t avoid her father’s eyes. They burned with frustration, digging into her as if they’d somehow be able to dig their way through her skull and pluck the memories right out of her brain. Milly tried to wriggle aside, aching to close her eyes again, but she didn’t dare. Then, much to the girl’s surprise, it was Dad who turned away._

_Her father appeared to be searching the room for something, glancing around with that harsh kind of frown he sometimes got when concentrating. Behind him, Missouri was speaking, but Milly, dizzy with relief to no longer be the subject of her father’s focus, struggled to make out the words. Her father’s heavy gaze fell back on her._

_There was a grim sort of determination in there that Milly had grown awfully familiar with over the past few months; like he was about to do something that he didn’t like but had set his mind on regardless. His grip on her face tightened, and before the girl could pull away, he tilted her head up once more. This time, straight toward the ceiling._

_She couldn’t look away._

_The ceiling seemed less far up than she remembered. Was it because she was bigger now? Her eyes locked on the central beams. Perhaps not. Perhaps it looked lower because it was. The walls were shrinking in on her, ceiling crushing her down. She started to stumble backwards, but something stopped her. Hands clamped around her shoulders. They burned._

_Milly wanted to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t open, trapping the noise in her chest instead. It kept building and building, so loud she almost thought she could hear that cry, captured behind her ribcage. It was buzzing in her ears. Or was that the sound of the fire? Hissing at her shoulders as the nauseating scent of burning flesh hit her nose._

_Again, her gaze drifted to the ceiling, expecting to find the source of the sensations, lights flickering in the background, flames licking her hair now– Something blocked her view. A dark, looming figure nudged her chest, and she stumbled to the side, then back, until she hit a wall. That felt right, for some reason. The dry wallpaper pulled ever so lightly on her hair as her head rubbed up against it, and almost automatically, she reached for her other senses. She tried to listen, tried to separate the different sounds, though she couldn’t recall why she was supposed to. Rumbling noises were coming from the vague presence in front of her. Dad? His features were blurry, like her eyes didn’t know how to focus, sometimes letting the picture sharpen for a fraction of a moment, only for it to shake loose into chaos again._ He shouldn’t be there. 

_The fire roaring in her ears made it impossible to make out the words she was certain had to be coming from her father now. It didn’t matter. Only one thought could occupy her mind at the moment, and that was that the man_ _should not be there._ _She tried to look at him, tell him to go, but right as she reached out her hand to tell him, to push him away, there, in his face, in place of familiar brown eyes she found nothing but blazing yellow._

_The world stopped._

_Those eyes… they smiled at her._

_“I warned you.” The voice seemed to be coming from miles away, and yet it was also right there, whispering into her ear. Milly couldn’t breathe. Heavy footsteps approached from the side, or was that her heart, banging in her throat? Little by little, the room was coming into focus, but even against her father’s sharpened features, those eyes just wouldn’t go away. It was like she was watching the world through two different lenses, her mind trying to consolidate a pair of overlapping pictures except they couldn’t make sense at all. Was the yellow-eyed man standing behind her father? Mocking her from over his shoulder with that tsk-ing voice and disappointed tone. “What did I say…” She cringed and shuddered, trying to blink away the tears that were threatening to obstruct her vision once again._ Don’t make a sound, or somebody dies _, her mind seemed to scream at her._

_No, the scream was coming from somewhere else. A little girl, crying for her mummy in distress. Milly moved to clap a hand over the girl’s mouth, but when her fingers reached out, it was her own lips they touched, and those yellow-eyes smiled at her knowingly._

* * *

“Mildred?” The girl seemed so much younger than her 25 years, sketching on the floor with downcast eyes. Missouri offered a hand but showed no surprise when it went ignored. Mildred pushed herself up with seeming ease, but the slight vibration of the paper in her hand belied that steadiness.

Dean and Sam were waiting for them just a few steps down the hall. Sammy offered his sister a gentle smile, eyeing the notebook curiously. “Everything okay?” 

It was Missouri who answered, reassuring the boy that everything was just fine. But before they left the house, boys already halfway down the street on their way to the car, the psychic placed a hand on Milly's arm. The girl stilled, eyes still firmly on the ground before her.

“Mildred.” Determined fingers flipped the top page of the notebook, revealing none of the tight cursive script of the first. Instead, a sea of flames, sketched roughly, frantically almost, blazed from the page, and in the midst of them, a pair of eyes. 

The sketch might be nothing but grey pencil strokes, but Missouri had no need for colour to know what she was looking at. 

“You will not go back there.” The notebook was torn from her hand, but Missouri’s grip on the young woman’s arm remained and it appeared that Mildred was not, indeed, silly enough to try and pull away completely. 

The child was shivering, Missouri realised, softening her demeanour somewhat in response. “Didn’t I warn you? It does no one any good to put yourself through that, child. I don’t care what he’s told you.” Her voice more gentle now, she guided the girl down the path of the house, towards the street. “Dean can handle himself. You cannot.” Her voice brooked no argument, and though Missouri couldn’t claim to be thrilled about the mutinous anger getting thrown her way by means of the child’s thoughts, she was glad to see those eyes focus again, aware and present. 

They stopped on the sidewalk for a moment, Missouri tuning out the impatient grumbling coming from the oldest Winchester across the road. A quiet request found its way to her. For a moment, she hesitated, then, finally, she caved. “ _Fine_. Your ‘language’ issues will be excuse enough for now, they need not know the details. But I tell you, girl, I don’t like it. Stubborn as mules, you Winchesters.” With firm steps, the woman made her way to the car, leaving the child to sort herself out. 

Milly glanced back at the house one last time, letting the calm façade she’d put on for the world, drop for just a moment. Her eyes shone with a bone-deep weariness, echos of fear still abounding. She closed them and sighed. Then, with downcast eyes and calm control regained, the girl crossed the road and got into the car.


End file.
